Strange Times
by Hospes
Summary: Eight years passed between the Stranger's fall through the Star Fissure and his first visit to Tomahna. What was he up to in the meantime? First draft, work in progress.
1. Part 1

The story of Myst, and all related characters and concepts, are copyright Cyan Worlds, Inc. This third party work is an unauthorised work of fanfiction, and is in no way sanctioned by or affiliated with Cyan Worlds, Inc. The work is shared with other fans at no cost, and no profit is being made from it.

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**Strange Times  
**Part 1

Stars. Everywhere, in every direction, stars. Brilliant, beautiful, terrible stars. The fissure he had fallen through had long since become just another little pinprick of light among the others, and he could no longer say which it was. He had turned around, twisted in his fall so many times, that he was not even sure of the direction. He was discovering that "down" had little meaning when there was no ground, no solid point of reference to point to. He was not even sure if he was still falling.

The initial panic had, thank mercy, faded fast. The terror gripping him now was the deeper, calmer fear that came from rational thinking in a hopeless situation. Death seemed certain, at first, but he had been falling for some time now, and was not dead yet. The air around him was not cold, no colder than it had been before he fell anyway, and with no ground to collide with, the fall itself seemed harmless. With no end in sight, however, it would not be long before thirst and hunger claimed him. Could this truly have been Atrus's intention? "The path home is now clear for all of us," he had said, and had also expressed a hope that they would meet again. He had seemed sincere. No, Atrus could not have meant for him to die here. Perhaps he had simply not known what awaited through the fissure.

Time passed. Time must have been passing. How long had it been since he first fell? Hours? Days? What hunger he felt would suggest the former, if it had truly been days, he would surely have been starving. The endless stars revolved around him, dancing, laughing at him as he fell. They did not seem to grow nearer, or more distant, simply hanging there in their mocking dance. No pattern emerged among them, no signs or constellations he could recognise. The shadow shapes that blotted out the stars here and there seemed also to be still against the sky, though as he was turning he was never sure if he was looking at the same ones twice.

Was this to be it, then? The end, his end, falling endlessly among unfamiliar stars. If so, it would indeed be something extraordinary! He had set out to explore the unknown, and had he not here found something no man could possibly have seen before? Yes, there could be worse ends than this, he thought, as he grew tired. His eyelids felt heavy, and his bones ached with fatigue from the labours of the last couple of weeks. The adventure was at an end, at last. He had done all he was asked to do, and had been given this glimpse of the unknowable as his reward. Yes, this was a good end. He closed his eyes, shut out the stars, and surrendered to sleep.

It was not to be. He awoke again. He had no way of knowing how long he had slept, but he did not feel rested. Something had changed. The stars seemed dimmer than they had before. The air was moving around him, a wind was forming, blowing from behind him, and he realised that this was what had woken him. Twisting his head, he could see what had changed, why the air was suddenly rushing past. There was ground! Looming, blocking out the stars, it was rapidly widening to fill his entire field of vision. Suddenly, there was a "down."

***

A fall from such a height should have killed him, but once again the end proved elusive. He hit the ground rolling, and the wind was knocked out of him. He ended up on his back on the sandy ground, gasping for air, unable to get up. As he regained his breath and calmed down a bit, he remained on his back, looking up at the stars, which he was quite certain were not the same stars he had just left behind. These were dimmer, more distant, and above all else, familiar! He recognised the Big Dipper, and there was Orion! Before he could fully understand what he was seeing, he recognised another shape in the sky. It was a rock, and it was falling very fast towards him. He threw himself on his side, and managed to avoid being bludgeoned to death. Getting up, he realised that he was indeed back home, at least in a sense. The familiar stars shone upon a familiar scene. There was the volcano, which had drawn his attention to begin with. His head was spinning, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. He was back where he started! Right where he had been when he first found the book, how long ago was it? Two months? Three? Time had blurred for him, these past weeks, a day in one world did not necessarily have as many hours in it as a day in another.

He was brought out of his reverie by a large tree, crashing to the ground in front of him. It was one of the red and white ones he had seen in Riven. Clearly, his fall had not been quite so lonely as he had thought. More rocks fell around him, as if in a giant hailstorm. He ducked and evaded the falling debris as best he could, dancing around in the cold desert night. This was not safe. Was all of Riven tumbling down around him? He needed shelter! If this was truly the same volcano, then the small ravine should be here as well. He could shelter in one of the chambers there, until the unnatural rain subsided. Dodging another falling tree, he skittered towards the volcano, in the direction he thought the ravine would be.

***

He had been wrong, and it took him some time to find the ravine, circling much of the volcano in the process, and discovering that the falling remnants were coming down over an even larger area than he had first expected. A rock had hit him on the shoulder, and his arm was screaming in pain. Thankfully, it had been a smaller rock, and he did not think the damage would be greater than a bad bruise. Arriving at the ravine at last, he discovered, to his relief, that his makeshift rope ladder was still in place. The climb down was hard with the hurting arm, and with the falling debris still raining down around him, but he managed to reach the bottom without too much screaming. Ducking into the little alcove where he had first sought shelter, he found everything just as he had left it. There was his knapsack, in the corner, and his hat, and on the rickety old cot, the book. It was open, face-down. It must have fallen like that when he first linked through. It seemed strange that all should be so unchanged, so normal. He had left the world, visited places beyond human ken! How could the world remain so untouched in his absence, and worse, on his return?

He lifted the book up, and in a mad moment of temptation, wanted to flip it open and link immediately back to Myst. It passed swiftly, however, and he put the book down by his knapsack, and, feeling the fatigue return, laid down on the creaking cot. The thumping sounds from the surface above him told him that the remains of Riven were still raining down upon the desert. Arranging his arm in as comfortable a position as he could manage, he fell asleep.


	2. Part 2

The story of Myst, and all related characters and concepts, are copyright Cyan Worlds, Inc. This third party work is an unauthorised work of fanfiction, and is in no way sanctioned by or affiliated with Cyan Worlds, Inc. The work is shared with other fans at no cost, and no profit is being made from it.

----

**Strange Times  
**Part 2

He awoke feeling rested, which was something of a novelty. His arm and shoulder were still hurting, and a cursory examination revealed a bruise quite a bit larger than he had expected, but it would heal fine. Through the door of the alcove, he could see that the top of the ravine was lit by sun, but he could not tell how late in the day it was. The thumps and crashes were gone, replaced by the silence of the desert. It seemed the otherworldly rain had subsided.

He did not feel up for the climb up his improvised ladder yet, not with his arm still so tender, he decided instead to take stock of his belongings. Rising to grab hold of his knapsack, his eyes fell instead on the Myst book. Picking it up, he sat back down on the bed, and turned it around in his hands. These books were easily the most astonishing objects he had ever seen. Gateways to worlds beyond his imagination! Untold adventures and explorations, and who knew how many there were? The temptation to go back struck him once more. Strange, when he had been on Myst, all that had been on his mind was finding a way home, and now that he was here, he was contemplating trapping himself yet again! Idly, he opened the book, and gave a small, startled exclamation.

The linking image was black! Where the vision of the strange island which had enticed him through the first time had been, only darkness remained. He quickly leafed through the book, his eyes not focusing on the unfamiliar writing, not sure what he was looking for, but when he found it, the cause of the disruption was obvious. Midway through the book, half a page was missing! Gnawed off by small teeth, to judge by the marks. Several of the adjacent pages had also been nibbled on. Some critter or other had gotten to the book in his absence. The damnable luck of it! How many years had the book lain, unharmed, in the desert before he found it? And now, some desert rodent decided to develop a taste for paper? He cursed, and returned to the black linking image. What would happen if he touched it? Most likely nothing, but he did not care to experiment. He had had his share of voids.

The disappointment he felt surprised him. Had he truly intended to return, to cut himself off once more from his own world? After all the trouble of getting back? "You know where to find me," Atrus had said. Indeed he did, but what good did that do, without a way to travel there? Was it the idea of never meeting the strange man again that caused this sadness?

No, he would not have gone through again. This was the world he belonged in, and he was not ready to leave it for good. There was no point in mourning the loss of an opportunity he would not have taken. Tossing the book away, he returned his attention to the knapsack.

What food was left had spoiled, not surprisingly. Here, too, was evidence of small teeth, much of the food had evidently been eaten well before it had time to rot. The food was probably what had attracted the animal to the alcove and the book to begin with. The mysterious critter clearly had a indiscriminate palate, it had even taken some bites out of the pelts he was carrying, but the food that remained had turned mouldy enough to put even this voracious beast off. Examining the pelts, he concluded that two of them were ruined beyond recovery, and he threw them out of the alcove. His water was thankfully intact, though there was precious little left in it. He needed to refill it, and also to catch something to eat if he was to make it out of the desert.

Leaving the knapsack behind for now, he stepped out of the alcove to attempt to ascertain the time of day. Looking up towards the sky, he could barley glimpse the sun above the lip of the ravine. Early afternoon, he guessed. He brought his water skin, and climbed down to the small pool at the bottom of the ravine to fill it. As he reached the bottom, he caught sight of movement in the other end of the narrow little gorge. There was his little gluttonous intruder, scampering off behind a rock. A ground squirrel. Well, it was sure to be a well fed one, he thought as he filled the skin. Returning to the alcove, he rummaged around in the knapsack again, and then set a small snare by the entrance. It was time to brave the ladder and see what the surface looked like.

***

The sight awaiting him on the surface was that of a disaster zone. It was as if a hurricane had swept through. The entire area surrounding the volcano was littered with debris, from rocks and boulders, to large trees and twisted pieces of metal. He saw what appeared to be a piece of the giant tree stump on the slope of the volcano, and something that might have been one of the spinning domes was visible in the far distance. Even as he marvelled at the scope of the destruction, he realised that this could not possibly be the whole of Riven. Impressive though the debris was, it could only be a small fraction of all that had existed on the islands. What had become of the rest of it, he wondered. Had the fissure closed before it could fall through, and the remains simply sunk beneath the ocean? Or had they been diverted towards one of the other black shadow shapes in the void? Had there been a rain of Riven on more than one world this night? Perhaps the collapse of the Age had simply caused the rest to wink out of existence.

Wandering around the volcano, kicking over the smaller pieces of debris, he spotted the Wahrk. It was hardly a difficult feat, the giant fish dominated the immediate surroundings. He approached cautiously, even dead, the beast was intimidating. A kettle of vultures was already forming overhead, Perhaps he, too, could help himself to some of the Wahrk's flesh before it rotted too much? Coming closer, he decided against it. It seemed wrong, to eat something so majestic. Even as a corpse, the Wahrk had the forbidding sense of the taboo about it. What a magnificent beast it was! He gently reached out a hand, and touched its scaly skin. Should he ever be tempted to think the recent events a dream, here was all the proof of reality needed! Retracting his hand, with some regret, he turned away from the Wahrk to continue his survey of the remains. He briefly considered attempting to chase the vultures away, but knew that any such attempt would be futile. Let them feast on unearthly fare, it was hardly likely to happen again.

He spent an hour or so rooting through the remnants. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. A souvenir, perhaps? Something small enough to carry, that could remind him of the adventure? Or maybe a sign of life, a still growing plant, or small, surviving critter? Something that might signify that Riven was not completely dead.

What he found was the book. The rush of elation upon seeing it mirrored the despair he had felt upon finding the black linking panel earlier in the day. Was he still, then, harbouring a wish to go back? He could not be certain, but he believed the book was lying in the same spot where he had first found the Myst book. Such symmetry! Such poetry! He picked the book up carefully, as if afraid it would crumble to dust in his hands. Opening it, he saw that the linking panel was indeed alive, a vision of the room in D'ni, where Atrus had been captive, swam about on the page. He realised he had lifted his hand as if to link through, and quickly closed the book. So, the bridge was not burned, there was a way back. So what? He had already determined that he would remain here. Even so, he kept the book, clutching it, as he made his way back to the ravine.

***

It grew dark again, as he sat studying his map. As crude as it was, it had gotten him this far. The observations he had made before he had found the Myst book still seemed to be accurate. He had indeed ventured too far south, left the Territory entirely. He was not equipped to go back across it now anyway. If he was to move on, he needed to find civilisation to resupply, and unless he could stumble over an Indian village, that meant going to the Spanish. El Paso would probably be his best bet. He would just have to hope he would not be arrested as a spy.

He turned his attention to the ground squirrel, roasting slowly on the fire. He had skinned it carefully. Although its pelt would probably not bring much of a price, every little bit counted. The meat would be edible soon, and he'd try to spare as much of it as he could, for the journey. El Paso had to be at least several days away, if he was where he believed.

If there was to be a journey. This place was not disagreeable. It had clearly been inhabited before, probably by some Indian hermit. There was water, and wildlife, he would not starve. Yes, a life could be had here. There was plenty of wood and metal scattered around the desert now, that could be used to build, improve the conditions of the ravine. Turning the squirrel on its spit, he imagined settling down, something he had never before felt the urge to do. Was there not more to see beyond the horizon? Had he finally seen enough?

Satisfied that the meat was cooking right, he once again turned his attention to the book. Leafing idly through it, his thoughts wandered. He would not go through it, he was firm in his decision. Why, then, keep it at all? Riven was gone, the link to it probably severed, there would be no returning if he ventured through. No, he would stay. But what to do with the book? Leave it here, if he moved on? Hide it away somewhere? What if somebody else should find it? Untold riches awaited beyond it, and who knew what sort of unsavoury character could stumble across it? And what of Atrus and Catherine? Should he not protect them from intruders? Should he carry the book with him, an eternal temptation to leave this life behind?

No! He would burn it! Toss it on the fire, let it fry with the squirrel! Be rid of it, and its terrible truths! Deny its existence entirely! He snapped it shut with a bang. He stirred the embers of his cooking fire, conjuring a flame. He lifted the book, and prepared to hurl it into the fire!

And then he put it in his knapsack, and pulled the burning squirrel out of the flame.

***

As night fell, it became clear that staying was not an option. The Wahrk might please the vultures, but the stench now emanating from the rapidly decomposing corpse was swiftly becoming unbearable. Taking his bearings as best he could, he pulled up his makeshift ladder and uncoiled it back into rope, packed his few belongings, aimed himself towards west, and set out for El Paso. This was the middle of nowhere. The ravine was not going anywhere, and neither were the remnants of Riven. He could always come back, when the Wahrk was gone, when he was ready to stop moving. For now, he would move once more towards the horizon, and see what sights awaited in New Spain.


	3. Part 3

The story of Myst, and all related characters and concepts, are copyright Cyan Worlds, Inc. This third party work is an unauthorised work of fanfiction, and is in no way sanctioned by or affiliated with Cyan Worlds, Inc. The work is shared with other fans at no cost, and no profit is being made from it.

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**Strange Times  
**Part 3

It took him five days to reach El Paso. He had been closer than he thought, but had struck out in the wrong direction to begin with, and ended up taking a rather large detour. He had seen no signs of Indian settlements. The few morsels remaining of the ground squirrel had been gone the first day, but the desert was not entirely inhospitable, and he was able to catch other critters for food. There were signs of other squirrels around, but they proved elusive. Most likely, they were still hibernating. The lizards were easier to catch, and though they offered no pelt, the meat was enough to get by on. On the third day, he had caught a roadrunner, and had himself a small feast. The palate could indeed distinguish the tastes of one world from another. After living mostly on alien fish and fruit for the past months, meat with the taste of home seemed an unparalleled luxury.

The journey also gave his arm time to heal. Though the bruise was not entirely faded, the pain was gone, for the most part. He could still feel slight twinges every now and then, if he twisted his arm the wrong way, or attempted to lift something heavy, but it was easily ignored. A full recovery, just as he had predicted.

The sights that awaited in New Spain had turned out to not be much different from the sights in the United States, at least the parts of it he had recently journeyed through. He had no way of knowing when exactly he had crossed the border, but it seemed he had already been deep in Spanish territory by the time he found the book. The desert surroundings, though beautiful, did not offer many clues as to ownership, and so far there was no miraculous or exotic and peculiarly Spanish feature to be seen. Perhaps further west, there would be wonders? Or perhaps, and this was the thought that gnawed at him night and day, the wonders were right here, but he could no longer see them, because he had now seen far greater wonders?

The adventure through the books now seemed more and more like some strange dream. He would lay awake in the night, worrying that he had somehow invented it all, dreamt it up in a fever from the injury on his arm, while laying on the small cot in the ravine. Perhaps there never was a Riven, or a Myst, perhaps Atrus and Catherine were mere figments of imagination, memories mixed with madness.

But still, there was the book. Whenever the doubt overcame him, he would rise from his resting place, and rummage madly through the knapsack until he found it, at the very bottom. He would clutch at it, assure himself of its reality, open it and see that D'ni still waited there on the other side, leaf through it, and stare at the mysterious writing in it, and he would grip it hard in his hands until the doubt receded. And then he would bury it in his knapsack again before the temptation to go through could reassert itself too strongly. This idleness of mind would not do, it was inviting demons. He needed a goal again, something to focus on.

And now he was here. El Paso, by the Rio del Norte. For a city serving as the administrative base of local Spanish operations, it did not look very grand. In fact, it looked a lot like several other cities he had seen, adjusted only for climate and flavour. He approached cautiously, but openly; it would not do to be caught skulking. As far as he knew, Americans did not often venture this far west. He hoped he would be able to find someone who spoke English. The local elite might have knowledge of it, but he doubted he'd be running into many of those. His own grasp of Spanish was flimsy at best, but he had picked up some French during his years north. Perhaps that would be adequate? French and Spanish were not that dissimilar, were they?

He hoped he did not look too much a vagrant as he neared. It had been some time since he had cleaned himself, but he did not think he would look any more mad than other trappers fresh from the wilderness. He might sound madder, though. Perhaps the language barrier would be a blessing after all, in case he let slip some ravings about other worlds. It would also not do to tip anyone of the ravine and the curious debris around it.

Still some distance from the city, he encountered a man on a cart, a Mexican, going north. A trader, presumably. The man did not seem interested in talking to him, he avoided eye contact and kept his cart as far away as he could on the uneven road, but this was an opportunity not to be missed. Walking straight up to the cart, so that the man could not avoid him, he asked his question directly.

"Do you speak English, mister?"

The man simply stared back blankly. Evidently not. Grasping for what Spanish he had heard, he tried again, just to be sure.

"Inglés?"

Even as he said it, he could tell his pronunciation was off. The man on the cart lit up in understanding, and then shook his head. No, no English. Naturally.

"Française?" he tried, with little hope. The man on the cart shook his head again, and spoke for the first time.

"Hablo solamente español," the man said, with a slight note of apology and a greater note of relief, and made to move on his way.

"Wait!" he cried. Perhaps he could still get answers to one of the more pressing questions he had been carrying, even with his limited vocabulary. "What date is it? Er … Feche? Fecha? Que fecha?"

The man on the cart seemed nonplussed, and even more eager to get away, but he answered the question. "Es el séptimo, señor."

Séptimo. Yes, as in septem! Seven. Seventh. He'd been gone longer than he thought. Unless...

"Dicembre?" he tried, uncertain of the word, but hoping the meaning carried.

"Enero," said the man, and clearly considered the exchange at an end, as he hurried his horse and rolled on his way before any more questions could be uttered.

Enero. He wasn't familiar with the word, but it had to be January. It wouldn't make any sense otherwise. Nearly two months, then. Strange, it seemed like that was not enough, so much had happened. Two months, and several miles away from the original plan. Two months extra to pass before his next letter home. They would worry, he thought absurdly, as if any letter sent from here would reach them. How could two months be so long and so little at the same time? Long enough for winter to settle. Long enough for crops to spoil. Long enough for a world to die.

He shook it off. It would do no good to worry about it, it was what it was, and he could now plan accordingly. For now, he would keep to the short term, and resupply. Hitching the knapsack properly on his back, and at the same time sneaking a feel at the contours of the book through the fabric, he headed into El Paso.

***

Once again, he learned that a city was a city, no matter it's location. Stumbling over his words, piecing together meanings from the occasional grasped syllable, he managed to locate a Pueblo who for some incomprehensible reason spoke some French. The man was called Pahana, and had apparently spent some time with French trappers, but the circumstances of it were beyond the limits of their shared vocabulary. Using Pahana as a middleman and translator, he was able to sell the pelts he had with him. The price was poor, even for the low grade pelts he had brought, and he suspected Pahana had reserved a rather large part of the profits for himself to be collected later when the gringo was gone. Still, it was money, and he was hardly in a favourable position to quarrel. The good fur trade was further north. He handed over his rather small stack of pelts, careful not to let Pahana or the trader spot the book in his bag.

With some difficulty, and a few linguistic dead ends, he managed to explain to Pahana that he needed supplies for further journeys. Pahana smiled widely, an expression that seemed to be his default, and assured him that they could easily get hold of any necessities.

"But would it not be better to wait, until you are ready to leave?" Pahana asked, in his broken French. "No sense in buying supplies that will perish before you can even pick a direction!"

"I don't need food," he replied in an only slightly less broken French. "I can hunt on the way. I need a reliable map, and I need salt and water, and I need advice about the terrain ahead."

Pahana's grin widened, an impressive feat. "Have no fears! I will ask around to find you the things you require, and for knowledge of the land, look no further than Pahana!"

No fears indeed. It was rapidly becoming clear that Pahana had his fingers in all sorts of dealings in El Paso, many of them taking place in the shadows. Though the prices would probably not be fair, he would at least end up with the supplies he needed.

Pahana left to find out who would pay best for a willing fleecing victim, leaving him alone in a tavern. He drank sparingly, painfully aware of his light purse. The night was nearing, and he did not much relish the idea of taking a room in El Paso. Better to trek outside of the city, and sleep under the stars. It had served him well so far, and if he got far enough away from the cut-throats of the gutters, he should be fine.

It seemed Pahana had been gone for several hours already when a visitor arrived. Three men in blue and white striped uniforms appeared. Spanish soldiers. One of them, wearing a finer uniform than the two others, and with shining metal gleaming on his chest approached him. The soldier, or possibly officer, Spanish military ranks were not his strong suit, had a large and well-groomed moustache, oiled to a perfect point. This seemed to sum up the man, spotlessly clean, and yet oily. He stood out amongst the unwashed rabble of the tavern like a sore thumb.

"¿Señor Wallace?" the soldier said. Even with the mispronunciation the word got through. The soldier knew his name.

"I don't ..." he began, but the soldier interrupted him.

"Your name is Wallace, sí?" The man spoke English! Not well, but well enough.

"Yes," he admitted. Getting noticed by authorities was rarely good, but cooperating would hopefully keep them off his back. "Do I know you?"

"Subteniente de Perez, at your service, señor." The word were friendly enough, and de Perez actually sounded as though he meant them. A good actor, then. De Perez gave the empty chair next to him a brief, disapproving look which swiftly vanished, but sat down nonetheless, and ordered a drink. His two companions took up positions directly behind him, ideally poised to stop any escape attempt. The clientèle of the tavern seemed torn between staring openly and attempting to inconspicuously fade into the background.

"You will have a talk with me, no? We do not see many americanos en El Paso," de Perez said, the embodiment of nonchalance. They clearly found him suspicious.

"I'm sure there'll be more coming, now that we're neighbours." He tried keeping his voice steady, no need to be nervous, he had nothing to hide. Except the book. "May I ask how you know my name?"

"You have spoken with much people here," de Perez replied, waving his hand as if to say that this was insignificant. "Sold furs."

"At a poor price, but then this is not the best market for it."

"¿Ah, sí? It is perhaps better en el norte, no?" The greasy man positively radiated friendliness. It was quite disconcerting. "You are perhaps on your way there? One must wonder, why you would visit la Nueva España if you do not have, how is it, el idioma?" He took a sip of his drink.

"It was not planned. I was exploring and trapping in our new lands, and got a bit lost. I realised I had wandered into Spain, and needed new supplies."

"Sí, sí, supplies. Including a map, yes?" His smile grew. "Un americano, coming here alone, not by our roads. Enters El Paso del Norte, keeps to the shadows, consorts with desagradables, criminals. Asks around for a map. Plans, perhaps, to go further west? Some men could think you were a spy, señor!" He threw his arms out and grinned happily, his face clearly saying that de Perez himself would never think such a thing.

"Criminals?" Pahana's dealings were evidently exactly as shady as he had feared. "I have spoken with those capable of speaking with me. As you pointed out, I do not know the language. Idioma," he added, at de Perez's quizzical expression.

"¡Ah, sí, sí!" he exclaimed. "No bad bread to good hunger, no? And you go back east, then?"

"Don't rightly know," he responded, as was true. "Might be bigger sights to see west."

"La Nueva España, beautiful, yes, and big!" de Perez replied in sudden patriotic fervour. "And then return east with knowledge of the military of Spain, sí?"

"No! I'm no spy! Just a traveller, and trapper."

De Perez smiled disarmingly, it was amazing how much he could put into that smile of his. He said something in Spanish to one of the other soldiers, who responded in turn. Wallace did not catch the meaning. De Perez smiled, and continued the Spanish conversation, but kept his eyes firmly on Wallace. Suddenly he gestured with one hand, and one of the soldiers grabbed the knapsack and tore it off, handing hit to de Perez.

"Hey!" Wallace protested, and moved to grab it back. One of the soldiers put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back in his seat. The book! He could not draw attention to it!

"Just a little peek, señor," laughed de Perez. "I am sure you will not mind." He rummaged around the sparse contents, looked at the salt canister and the remaining snares, and then fished out the map.

"¡Hah!" he exclaimed, looking at it. "Ciertamente a poor map, señor, for travel in these parts! Perhaps you do need a new one."

He put the map back in the pack. Wallace ground his teeth in frustration, but dared not speak out. De Perez did not seem overly impressed with the supplies left, still smelling of rotten food. Then he fished out the book. Wallace's heart stopped.

"You enjoy reading, señor?" He flipped the book open, thankfully not on the first page, and raised his eyebrows as he leafed through it, studying the D'ni text.

"A code, señor?" he asked, fixing his gaze on Wallace. "Reports of our troops for the Estados?"

Wallace swallowed. What would he say? What would de Perez believe? He could not lose the book now! Not to such an uncertain fate. He should have burned it while he had the chance! How could he have been so stupid?!

"It's Hebrew," he heard himself say, and groaned inwardly. The text was very obviously not in Hebrew.

De Perez simply gazed at him for several seconds. Then he burst out laughing. He slammed the book shut, and put it back in the knapsack.

"A liar as poor as you, señor," he said between laughs, "would be a bad spy indeed." He handed the knapsack back to Wallace and gave his companions an order in Spanish. He got out a piece of paper. "Your full name, señor, for our records," he said, and handed over a pen. Wallace signed it in a daze, not believing his luck. De Perez snapped the paper back, and got up to leave.

"Enjoy your visit to El Paso, señor, and be weary of your company. If it is fur, you are after, I suggest you go back north." He briefly raised his hand in farewell, and left.

***

Pahana did not return that evening. Presumably, the soldiers had scared him off. When Wallace could wait no longer, he trekked out of town, the way he had come, and located a secluded spot where he felt relatively certain he could sleep without being stabbed in the night. Using his knapsack as a pillow, with the book reassuringly jagging into his cheek, he settled down for the night. Thinking that he would not be this lucky the next time, he fell asleep.

When he woke up, the book was gone.

----

(Note: I am about to lose both time and internet connection. Whenever the next instalment comes, you can assume that I did not do the research. Also, apologies to people who actually speak Spanish.)


	4. Part 4

The story of Myst, and all related characters and concepts, are copyright Cyan Worlds, Inc. This third party work is an unauthorised work of fanfiction, and is in no way sanctioned by or affiliated with Cyan Worlds, Inc. The work is shared with other fans at no cost, and no profit is being made from it.

----

**Strange Times**  
Part 4

How? How!? He was a light sleeper, you had to be in the wild! How could he not have woken when the knapsack was pulled from under his head? How, how, how, how could this possibly happen?

He practically tore the sack apart, upending it, emptying all the remaining contents on the ground and scrabbling though them, refusing to believe what he was seeing. When he ran out of items to shake, he continued rooting along the ground, digging into it with his fingers. He was almost whimpering as he rooted through the surrounding earth.

Several minutes passed before the panic subsided enough to give room for rational thought. The book was gone. As were his meagre earnings, his knives, his cooking pot, his gun powder, even his salt box! All of the things he still had with him that could possibly be sold for some profit. And the book. Was the thief after it specifically? Had the villain already gone through, to torment Atrus and Catherine, and plunder the worlds beyond? No, no one but him knew what the book truly was. And if the thief had gone through, the book would still be here, or nearby. He would sweep the area, just to be sure, but most likely the book had been taken away to be sold for profits. If so, it would have been taken to El Paso. Pahana might know who was behind it, or who they might try to sell the loot to. Unless, of course, Pahana himself was the thief. He thought he had been careful, kept Pahana from even seeing the book, but perhaps he had slipped? Perhaps it was obvious that he was hiding something? Stupid! Drawing attention straight to it while trying to keep it safe! He cursed himself for not having burnt it.

Pahana was not the only suspect. The soldier, de Perez, had seen the book, had studied it. The man had feigned friendliness, but that was an obvious sham. Had he perhaps noticed the linking panel and wanted a second look? No, if de Perez had wanted the book, he could simply have kept it then. What of the two soldiers who were with him? Come to think of it, anyone could have spotted the book in the tavern while de Perez was reading it. It had probably been a bit of a spectacle. His heart sank, this could be nearly impossible.

Once again, he was forced to admit that he had not entirely shaken all intentions to go back through the book. He knew there would be no return from such a journey, and still he now despaired at the lost opportunity. It made him angry, he could not go around pining for impossible adventures. He had a life in this world, such as it was, and it was not a bad one. There was still more to discover. No, he cold not,would not go through it. At least, he compromised with himself, not yet.

He needed to recover the book, though, or the question was moot. Not to mention the more immediate issue of preventing the thief from entering D'ni. Quickly gathering up his few scattered possessions in the knapsack, he headed back into town.

***

To begin with, he simply wandered the streets, enduring the suspicious looks of the Mexicans. He had no idea where to begin, he didn't know where to find the only two people he could communicate with, and both of them could possibly be involved in the theft. As he was walking he began to consider for the first time that the book might be entirely incidental to the thief. While he had of course noticed that most of his possessions had disappeared, he had been working from the assumption that the book was the primary target. If the thief had simply been looking for any potential valuables, his search would be all the more hopeless. Any lowlife bummer could be the culprit! Suddenly, the suspicion was in his eyes, as he looked on the people around him, especially those with bags or sacks. The book could be walking past him this very moment!

The language barrier seemed more severe this day, much stronger and higher a fortification than it had the day before. By continuous repetition of Pahana's name, he managed to make his objectives known, but was mostly met with shakes of the head and uninterested stares. Everyone seemed to know of Pahana, but no one were forthcoming about his present location. Occasionally he was pointed in a direction, towards a tavern or another man, but each time the leads led only to dead ends. Eventually, he was directed to what appeared to be the Indian quarter of El Paso, and felt that at last he might be getting nearer.

The Indians proved to be as unhelpful as the Mexicans however. His Spanish was not improving, and he knew nothing of the Pueblo tongues, so he was forced to continue his repetitive naming. If anything, the Indians were less forthcoming, he supposed that they were either unwilling to associate themselves with Pahana, or possibly unwilling to give him up.

He was just about to give up on this line of enquiry, and see if he could remember the Spanish word for 'book' instead, when he heard a familiar voice. The words were unintelligible, but the tone was unmistakable. Hurrying around the corner, he saw de Perez chatting amiably with an Indian, who was flanked by two other soldiers, just like Wallace himself the night before. De Perez was smiling and laughing, and looked to all the world as if the two were the best of friends. Clearly, he detested the man. The Indian was more honest in his face, and seemed downright terrified of de Perez.

Drawing more attention from the authorities was not the smartest move to make, but this was an opportunity not to be missed. He walked quickly towards the little group, which was largely avoided by the rest of the street's inhabitants, and was about to speak a greeting when de Perez happened to turn his head, and spotted him. There was a brief flash of disgust, gone in an instant as his face settled into the familiar, overly friendly mien.

"¡Señor Wallace!" he cried, delight dripping from every syllable. "Still here, entonces? I had heard you left our city last evening!"

"I encountered some trouble," he replied, not wanting to give too much away. "I seem to have lost some things, among them my guide. I am looking for him now but have had some trouble communicating."

De Perez grinned in amusement, possibly the first genuine smile Wallace had seen on him. "¡Ah!" he exclaimed, "Your bread has proved staler than what can be stomached, after all?" He laughed, and seemed to quite enjoy the situation. "Do not say I did not warn you, señor!"

"Indeed you did," he answered, somewhat stiffly. "Nevertheless, I must find him, and see if he has my lost things."

De Perez stroked his moustache, grinning to himself. "These things you have lost? Your knives, perhaps? Your monedero? Your pistol? Oh no, you did not have a pistol. Your traps, then, perhaps?"

"Yes," Wallace admitted. Hesitating, he added: "And my book."

"Sí, sí, your siddur." De Perez laughed mockingly. "Must not forget that. Meagre pickings, señor. Not much value lost, no?"

"All replaceable, with enough money. Except the book."

"And a book muy interesante it must be indeed." De Perez's eyes were glittering with a renewed interest, a greed rearing it's well-groomed head. Wallace realised he had said too much, and needed to draw away. De Perez apparently saw this, and dropped the subject. "But no money to be made without your traps, naturalmente," he said. "Ciertamente, a problem for you."

"And so I must find Pahana," Wallace said, one last attempt to get help.

"I feel for you, señor," de Perez replied, the soul of charity. He turned back to the Indian between the soldiers, who had been watching the conversation with the blank look of incomprehension. "As it happens, I too am looking for your pan duro today, and was asking mi amigo here where we might find him."

The Indian did not seem too happy to be the centre of de Perez's attention again. De Perez spoke to him in Spanish, too rapid for Wallace to follow at all, and received a hesitant reply that Wallace could see was evasive even across the language divide.

The conversation continued. De Perez became progressively more friendly and jovial, a progression mirrored by the Indian's increasingly nervous demeanour. Eventually, he was practically shaking, as he answered de Perez's questions. At last, de Perez turned back to Wallace with a triumphant smile.

"Answers, at last!" he said, and motioned to the soldiers. They grabbed the Indian by his shoulders and led him away, to his feeble protests.

"What has he done?" asked Wallace. De Perez waved it off.

"No matter, no matter, he has seguramente done something. Your amigo seems to have left El Paso, decided to go up the river for a while. It seems he felt too many questions were asked about him. The poor man seemed to have la impresión that I meant him harm!" Here, he threw his arms wide in astonishment at this unthinkable situation.

"Imagine that," Wallace mumbled. "Up the river, you say?"

"Sí, sí, he will not have gone too far. Several of los desagradables de la ciudad tend to gather there, when they feel it has become too ... restrictiva."

"And you don't go after them?"

"When it is called for. In this case it is not, and mis deberes bind me to la ciudad. It seems he has your book with him. Your other items have been sold here, but the book had no takers. It's value is not on the streets, I think, sí?" The gleam in his eyes returned, and he stared hungrily at Wallace. "I hope you will come back to the city once you have found it. I would relish la oportunidad to speak with you again under less urgent circunstancias."

The friendly tone could not completely hide the greedy curiosity. Wallace immediately decided to steer well clear of El Paso in the future. Out loud, he said: "It would be a pleasure. Thank you for your help."

"There will be una redada against a fence in a few hours. You may find some of your items there if you get to them before we confiscate them. ¡Adiós, señor!" With a final smile and polite nod, de Perez turned and walked away. Wallace stood there watching him, to be sure he would indeed leave. Further down the road, he ran into another soldier, and greeted him warmly and enthusiastically. Lord above! Was there no-one this man did not despise? Wallace shuddered at the thought of living a life of such pretence. Shaking it off, he moved on to plan his pursuit.

***

The raid did indeed take place shortly thereafter, presumably on information from the captured Indian. In the confusion of the fence's attempted escape, he was able to find his knives, and also to snatch a pistol and some gunpowder. This was technically stealing, he supposed, but the fence would hardly need them any more. So armed, though it felt woefully inadequate, he left town on Pahana's trail.

He made good time, following the river. Assuming de Perez was right about the haunting grounds of displaced criminals, he would hopefully catch up to Pahana soon. He kept a watchful eye about him as he walked. Though he did not have much left worth stealing, an ambush of robbers would not check his pockets before they shot him. Walking in this manner, he was well outside El Paso when night fell again, but had still not seen any trace of Pahana. Reluctantly making camp for the night, he could not sleep. He sat and watched the land around him, one hand on his pistol.

He must have fallen asleep eventually, for he woke with a start as the sun rose. He did not feel rested, but broke camp immediately and walked on. It could not be much further, not if de Perez was right.

As the sun climbed higher, he slowed his pace, walked quieter. He did not know why, but instinct told him to keep quiet, and continue with caution. He left the riverside, veering inland, to come at his unknown target from an unexpected direction. Eventually crawling on his stomach, he peered over a small hill, and saw the reason for his behaviour.

Pahana was lounging in the shade of a large rock. Two other men were with him, one of them tending a cooking fire. There were chatting amicably and carelessly, evidently not expecting visitors. Pahana brayed a loud laughter at some joke. Were they drunk? He had a cloth bag with him, which looked quite full. Was the book in it?

The man at the fire spoke up, and Pahana and the other man rose to join him. With an indignant start, Wallace realized that they were using his own cooking pot! They ate in silence, more because they were too busy stuffing themselves than from fear of attracting attention. Wallace kept silent, laying still on his hill. He could not be spotted by them now. He could handle one of them, possibly two, but three would be too many to overpower on his own. He felt the pistol at his waist. He could perhaps shoot one them from here, take them off guard and even the odds before they realised what was happening. He would prefer to avoid killing, though, if possible. Besides, he could not be sure of hitting his mark, and all three men down there were armed, and so at least two would return fire. A shooting match could easily end in tragedy. He needed a different plan.

As they finished their meal and began their chatter again, he slid silently down behind the hill, and settled there. Should he wait until dark, when they were sleeping? They would surely set a watch, but one man could be dealt with easier than three. The only problem would be doing it silently.

Pahana's obnoxious laughter rang out again. Was it really so? He peeked over the top of the hill. Sure enough, they were passing a bottle around, and seemed to have had plenty of it already. Could he be so lucky? Either they were very stupid, or they felt entirely secure in their camp. Neither seemed likely, but nevertheless, there they were, drinking themselves out of their minds. If this continued, he'd be able to walk right in and pick the bag up in a few hours.

Either way, waiting seemed a safe bet. The laughing bandits did not seem inclined to scouting or hunting at the moment, so he tried to relax, yet remain alert. He was tired from his lack of sleep, but he could not allow himself to fall asleep before they did. To occupy his mind, he attempted to plan for any eventuality, predict every possible move they might make. It would be a slow wait.

***

It was almost evening before the bandits ended their party. After several drunken songs, they seemed to tire out, and apparently decided to retire early. One unhappy man was assigned the watch, while Pahana and the other man settled down to sleep. Wallace doubted the watchman would stay awake long either.

As the sun moved slowly west, Wallace crept closer to the little camp. The sleeping men were snoring, and the watchman seemed to be asleep sitting up, as small snores could be heard coming from him as well. Circling around the camp, Wallace could creep on the man from behind. Though they all seemed to be sleeping quite heavily, he moved as silently as he could, watching his steps to avoid anything that would make a sound. He had his pistol in hand as he approached the watchman, carefully stepping over the sleeping Pahana. Raising his hand, he slammed the handle of the pistol into the back of the man's head. The sound was louder than he liked. The man simply toppled forwards to the ground, never waking from his slumber. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the two others.

The remaining stranger sleepily raised his head, and said something in an unfamiliar language. Then he spotted Wallace, and shouted, drunkenly, in alarm.

The man reached for his pistol. Wallace quickly kicked him, to keep him from getting to it. The shout had woken Pahana, who was now getting up, shaking his head to clear it. He cried out in recognition as he spotted Wallace, and reached for his own firearm. There was no time to lose. Wallace punched him, knocking him off balance, and grabbing the advantage threw himself at him, landing them both on the ground.

They struggled there, briefly. Pahana's punches were weak. Thankfully, his foes were drunk, less able to focus on the fight. Using his pistol handle again, Wallace slammed into Pahana, who slumped dazed on the ground.

Quickly getting up, he turned his attention to the man he had kicked earlier. The man had recovered, and also gotten up, and now had his pistol in his hand. Wallace ducked behind the large stone as the man fired, but the drunkard's aim was poor, and the shot missed by a wide margin. Wallace fired his own pistol, aiming for the man's leg. His shot was more accurate, and the man fell screaming to the ground, clutching his bleeding thigh.

Wallace quickly ran over and picked up the pistol, throwing his own away for now, and then knocked the man out. He was about to check the severity of the wound when someone slammed their fists down on his back.

He landed on the ground, breath lost for a moment. Rolling around, he saw it was Pahana, evidently recovered from his earlier daze. Pahana jumped at him, and Wallace barely had time to shield his chest before he landed. Another scuffle followed. They rolled around on the ground, fists flying, pistols entirely forgotten. Ground was won, and ground was lost as they tired each other out. Eventually, Pahana, in his drunken state, proved the weaker, and Wallace pinned him to the ground. The man was snarling at him, fighting like a rabid animal. As Wallace reached for Pahana's pistol to deliver another knock-out blow, Pahana got a hand free, and managed to grab a rock. He slammed it at Wallace, apparently aiming for the head, but hitting his shoulder instead. Unfortunately, it was his injured shoulder, the one damaged by the falling rocks.

Pain exploded from the spot, racing up and down his arm like white-hot lightning. He fell back, clutching his arm. Pahana got up, and delivered an all-fired kick into his stomach, laughing over his sudden reversal of the fight. Wallace crumbled to the ground, wheezing. Pahana laughed again, and aimed a kick towards his crotch, but missed. The fight had clearly not been enough to sober him up.

As Pahana prepared another attempt, Wallace's hand closed around something he had been gripping when the rock hit. His head spun, he couldn't remember what it was. He looked down. Pahana's pistol!

Time seemed to slow. Grabbing the pistol desperately, he pointed it in Pahana's direction just as his leg began to move in another kick, one that would hit home. Without time to think or aim properly, he fired. The bang seemed to hang in the desert air for a long time. Pahana's kick didn't come. A dark, wet spot appeared on his stomach. He looked down at it, a confused expression on his face. Slowly, slowly, Pahana fell to the ground, and did not move again.

***

It was several moments before Wallace could breathe easily again. He rose carefully, pain racing through him. After steadying himself on the rock for a while, he felt he could move again, and began to take stock of the disaster.

Pahana was dead. Despite the fact that it had been purely in self defence, he felt guilty. Even after the betrayal and fight, he felt sad that he had ended the man. He pushed the feelings aside, done was done.

The man he had shot in the leg was still alive, but bleeding. Tearing some fabric from the man's shirt, he bandaged the wound as best he could. He did not think it would be fatal. Then he tied both the remaining men up with the rope from his knapsack.

Finally he could turn his attention to the sack. Opening it, he found a veritable treasure trove. There was food, water, salt, all the things he had been robbed of. Even a new piece of rope to replace the one he had used. He had no eyes for this, though, quickly emptying it on the ground, until he got to the bottom, and found what he was looking for.

There was the book. He nearly cried with relief as he lifted it out of the sack. He quickly flipped it open, to inspect the linking image. It was there, showing the same scene as ever. To be sure, he flipped through the book, examining the pages, but could find no damage. It was safe, sound and in good condition. Sinking to the ground again, he breathed a long sigh of relief. The book was safe.

He gently placed it back in the knapsack, where it belonged, carefully concealing it under the other items he took from the sack. He would not, could not, let something like this happen again. Standing, he looked up, and then down the river. He could not return to El Paso. De Perez would be waiting for him, eager to get his hands on the book. The man could not possibly know what riches that book could lead him too, but given a chance, he would find out. No, El Paso was too dangerous. The Spaniards in general would have to be avoided from here on. He would need to be careful of de Perez when he returned to settle in the ravine by the volcano.

If, he quickly corrected, catching himself. If he ever returned to settle by the volcano.

Where to now, then? East? Familiar ground? It did not seem tempting, to avoid El Paso he would need to veer far north, and there was no guarantee he would not run into other soldiers. Slowly, he turned his head west, towards the setting sun. What sight lay there, he wondered. More Spaniards, to be sure, but they would be a danger in any direction. Mountains? Forests? The sea? Yes, for sure, the sea. Had any man ever reached that coast over land? He was not sure. In the north, perhaps, if that expedition had succeeded. But not here, not across Mexico. Surely, no American had gone overland to California! Yes, west was where the adventure was, if still there were adventures in this world.

He cut the ropes of the unconscious men. No sense in letting them die here. He took Pahana's purse, which seemed to contain all the stolen money and then some. He wondered if he should bury the bandit, but he had no spade to dig with, and no time to spare. His companions could do it, when they woke. Throwing the knapsack over his shoulders, and wincing from the pain it caused, he left the unconscious bandits behind, and moved on towards the sunset.

----

(Note: Some of you may have heard about "that expedition." I think they named a TV show after it.

I am still short on time and shorter on internet. No promises made as to the speed of updates, though it seems I am getting quite attached to this story, so abandonment is unlikely. So far, I've covered about eight of the 3032 days I seem to have promised in the summary. We may skip a few.)


	5. Part 5

The story of Myst, and all related characters and concepts, are copyright Cyan Worlds, Inc. This third party work is an unauthorised work of fanfiction, and is in no way sanctioned by or affiliated with Cyan Worlds, Inc. The work is shared with other fans at no cost, and no profit is being made from it.

----

**Strange Times**  
Part 5

The night terrors gradually subsided. One morning he realised he had not woken once in the night to check on the book. Though much of his waking hours were still spent dwelling on his fantastic journey, he took this as a good sign that he was readjusting to life on Earth. His desire to go through the book seemed to dim, the arguments he held with himself grew fewer and fewer. Though he still checked the book at least once a day, he stopped taking it out of the knapsack after a week or so. It was enough to see it.

Though he had escaped the fight without serious injury, he was well bruised. The first couple of days of walking were painful. Day by day, the bruises healed, and his skin regained its colour. His shoulder was the slowest of all, Pahana's punch had apparently hit exactly the wrong spot, and the bruises from the falling rock was flaring up again. He hoped he would have time to heal properly before the next time he got himself into trouble. There was none to be found out here, though. Slowly, slowly, his shoulder got better.

The game proved much the same as on the journey to El Paso. There wasn't much of it, but it was enough for one man. It forced him to go slow, to spend much time hunting, but it paid off in adequate meals. On the third day, he was lucky enough to find a ground squirrel nest. The squirrels were all in torpor, easy to catch, and enough to feed him for a couple of days while his condition improved. After that, after the pain subsided, hunting became easier. He was eating better, feeling better and sleeping better. The journey west was doing him good.

The desert landscape was broken by small mountains and hills. He was glad it was winter, in high summer the trek would have been unbearable but now the temperature was pleasant. The sun shone all hours of the day, but the nights were freezing cold. Water would eventually be an issue, for now the skins he had taken from the bandits sufficed.

Every morning and evening he readjusted his course, aiming himself away from the sunrise, and towards the sunset. As long as he kept on straight west, he would reach his goal. He occasionally found himself veering north, following dry riverbeds and natural paths carved among the sand and rock, taking detours to avoid the worst climbs. He had to believe the desert would end eventually, Spain would surely not guard their land so jealously if it was only dry sand, a heavily scarred landscape from one end to the other. California was a rich land, he had heard. Good soil, good game, and wealthy from trading on the seas. The desert would have to stop.

After ten days of lonely walking, not seeing a soul, he met a group of people on horses, five men and a woman. They were Indians. Pueblos, he assumed. They watched him cautiously as he approached, but apparently decided he did not come with hostile intentions. He raised his hand in greeting, a greeting that was hesitantly returned. He smiled as he reached them. Communication was unlikely, if they spoke anything other than their native tongue it would be Spanish. He envied them their horses, a horse would make his journey west much lighter, not to mention faster. He had nothing to trade with, however, and it would be unlikely that they would leave one of their number walking even if he'd had anything of sufficient value. Still, couldn't hurt to make friends.

One of the men spoke to him, and sure enough, it sounded Spanish. He kept on smiling, while shaking his head to indicate his lack of understanding. He hoped they wouldn't write him off as an idiot or madman.

The man said something else, this time in a language he did not recognise. Their native tongue, presumably. No more comprehensible to him than the first attempt. He decided to try setting a less complicated tone for the conversation.

"Wallace," he said, slowly, putting his hand to his chest to indicate himself. "American," he added, just in case.

The Indians looked confused, but also amused. Perhaps they did take him for an idiot. They exchanged some words between themselves, and the woman laughed at a remark from one of them. Eventually, the man who had spoken so far shrugged and returned the gesture, putting his hand on his chest and speaking in a name. It sounded like "Ammad."

A silence of sorts settled as Wallace pondered what to say next. He hadn't really thought this through. The Indians were muttering amongst themselves again. His perpetual, uncomprehending smile seemed to amuse them, but they clearly were also at a loss on how to continue the conversation. The situation was becoming a bit uncomfortable.

At last, the man who had done the speaking had evidently had enough. Affecting a manner that said "Oh, well, can't hang about here all day," clearer than any language possibly could, he pointed north-east, indicating where they were going. Wallace returned the favour, pointing west. With smiles and nods and raised hands they parted ways, and continued on in their separate directions. He could hear them laughing as they rode off, amused by this dullard wandering about the desert alone. He had to laugh at himself, too. Even in the dead wilderness, social embarrassment could catch up with him, he thought, shaking his head. And a mad sight he must seem indeed. He would have to try harder to pick up some Spanish when he next had the chance. If he were to travel in the West, he couldn't continue on with this handicap.

With a last regretful thought of the horse he didn't have, he went on his way.

***

The desert proved enormous. The journey stretched on. He lost count of the days, and did not know exactly how long he had been trekking through it. Though the game was still present, the water dwindled. He had to ration himself further, relying on the blood from the game for extra moisture. He gathered dew in the morning, but had little to collect it on. If this continued he would eventually have no choice but to use the book, to escape the heat and thirst. He could have perished there, dried out under the desert sun and eaten by vultures, sharing the fate of the Wahrk, had he not reached a river, flowing lazily through the dry land. Following this, he was safe from dehydration.

Eventually, after what seemed like weeks, the desert ended. It happened gradually, with more and more plants appearing around him as he walked. Soon, brooks and rivers returned to the landscape, flowing westward with his passage, and he could follow them without fear of thirst again. His walking quickened, as grass began to grow in his path, and the air freshened with the smell of trees. There were forests ahead. Perhaps good game? Something with valuable pelts, something he could sell to the nearest trader? They would be Spaniards, but they would probably be less worried about spies this far west.

That night he rested under trees, for the first time since he had returned to Earth. And before Myst, how long had it been since he left the great forests? Too long! The desert was not inhospitable, but a trapper belonged in the woods. He gazed at the stars again that night, the same stars that had welcomed him back those few weeks ago. Navigating by stars was not his strong suit, and he had no map to guide him, but he believed he had now entered Upper California. As he dozed off to sleep, his thoughts turned again to Atrus, to the land beyond the book, and to the wonders those worlds held. He could not imagine them. That was the point. Feeling the book against his head through the knapsack he smiled to himself as his eyes dropped shut. It was there. It would be there. The door was still open. He could go through any time he wished. Filling his head with pleasant fantasies of unknown shores, he fell asleep.

***

The next day, he reached the ocean.

It came upon him suddenly, without warning. He realised later that the smell of the air was that of the sea, but at the time, he was taken by surprise. As he came over a hill, there it was before him, stretching to the horizon, filling his vision from side to side. Even from this distance he could see the waves breaking against the shore.

In a daze, he walked on towards it, the immense ocean filling his mind, leaving no room for reflection, no room for thought or analysis. He merely walked on. Some hours later he fell to his knees on a rocky beach, the lapping waves almost reaching him as they stretched over the sand.

This was the first time he had seen a terrestrial ocean. He had seen lakes, great ones, large enough to blot out the opposite shore, but this was something entirely different. This was an ocean. Great, wild, untameable and terrible.

He recalled his arrival on Myst, how he had simply sat there on the wooden dock, staring out at the impossible stretch of water. And then again, on Riven, the endless waves, constantly threatening to sever the islands from each other once and for all. Nothing in his life had prepared him for that sight, that immensity. He had thought it, quite accurately, a sight not of this world.

And yet, here it was again. In this world, the same awesome and unfathomable sight. The same immensity, the endless, welcoming sea. He could not fully understand why, but the sight filled him with joy.

He closed his eyes, savouring the moment. The sun, warming his neck. The wind, cooling his face. The salt smell, filling his lungs. The gentle rushing waves, music to his ears. The water, which had now reached his knees, soaking his breeches. He had wept for the wondrous worlds he had turned his back on, and here the Earth matched the greatest wonder they had offered. The tears on his face now held no sorrow.

***

He camped there, on the beach, that night. He could not bear the thought of moving away from the sea yet. He had found a bird's nest with four eggs in it, and had built a small fire to cook them on, but otherwise he had not moved his eyes from the horizon. Now, his hunger sated, and the first signs of sleep approaching, he took the book out from the knapsack, and opened it in his lap.

The image remained as ever, the little room in D'ni, with the desk where Atrus had sat the whole time he had known him, ever writing in the great Riven book. The man had barely slept, for fear of the consequences. Now, the desk was empty, the room dark. He could just make out the contours of what he believed was the Myst book on the desk. Atrus and Catherine would have gone back to that curious island, leaving D'ni dead and dark. Nothing moved in the image, there was nothing there that could, yet it was not the captured moment of a painting. There was life in it, the room was as real and vivid as the sea before him. Just a touch away.

He closed the book. It was easy. Holding it close to him, he looked out at the sea. He would still need to keep it safe, hidden, protected. Other must not be allowed through, to pester and torment those friends whom he had know for so short a time. But he would not go through. There were still wonders in this world, to rival any that Atrus could dream up in his books.

He put the book back in the knapsack. He would not destroy it either. One day, when he had seen all there was to see, he could use it. For now, he would keep it safe, and secret, and not look in it again until the day came. If the day came. He sighed, contented.

Once more putting the knapsack to use as a pillow, he lay down to rest, his eyes still glued to the shifting sea. He would not stay here long, would not attempt to venture out on it. He was no sailor, and had no intention of joining the navy of Spain. He would go north again, follow the coast as long as he could, perhaps go as far as Oregon if the whim took him. There were sure to be forests further north with worthy game in it. Yes, north, and perhaps east again? There was a blank space there, large and unknown tracts of New Spain, just waiting for someone to see it. And whatever there was, he though as he closed his eyes, it was sure to be a wonder.

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(Note: If I was going for a different tone, this part might have been called "Jedediah Smith, Eat Your Heart Out!"  
The next part might be a while away, the conditions of time and internet still apply, and will until summer. Internally, the story will make a jump of several years, so perhaps this is appropriate.)


	6. Interlude 1

The story of Myst, and all related characters and concepts, are copyright Cyan Worlds, Inc. This third party work is an unauthorised work of fanfiction, and is in no way sanctioned by or affiliated with Cyan Worlds, Inc. The work is shared with other fans at no cost, and no profit is being made from it.

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**Strange Times**

Interlude 1

The sun shone brightly through the trees above the little cabin. Summer was fastening its grip now, the temperatures were becoming more pleasant. Compared to the blizzards of winter, this was much to be preferred, in his opinion. The sun was already high in the sky. He had overslept. No matter. Today was not a busy day. The pelts were all pressed and ready, the traps were packed away and the animals had plenty of food available. Nothing major still needed to be done before the journey tomorrow.

He remained on his cot for a while longer, gazing out his little window, which he had apparently forgotten to shutter last night. It was nice to relax for a bit, the preparations the last week had been exhausting. He looked around the now bare room that had been his home this past years. All his possessions were packed away now, into the large bags. Couldn't leave anything behind and expect it to still be there when he got back.

He got up, eventually, and looked in on the animals. There was little to be done, they had long since learned how to find their food, but he put some out for them anyway. The mule would have quite a load to carry tomorrow, and it would not do to have them weakened.

Next, he checked on the pelts. The packs were there, just as the night before. A good haul this spring, almost more than he could transport, especially with all his other possessions in tow. Still, the mule had carried worse loads in its day, he would be able to bring them all. Double checking the ropes holding the pressed packs together, he moved back into the cabin.

His simple bedroll would be the last thing packed, he still needed it one more night, but there were other little things still lying around. He packed away his salt and his gunpowder, put his smaller knives into his old knapsack, and his axe as well. He would most likely not need them at hand on the journey. Then there were the letters.

He dug up the small pile of letters that had accumulated over the year, and unfolded the smudged paper which was the latest. His letter writing was growing more infrequent, he could see. Last year's stack has been larger. Nevertheless, there was at least one for each month. Perhaps it was just that he was running out of things to write about. Life in the mountains had taken on a routine of its own.

Putting the finishing touches on the letter, he sealed it crudely with his small candle and put it with the rest of the stack. He would send them with the traders, just as he did every year. He did not know if they reached their destination, no answer had ever come. He wondered what they were doing there, back home. Did they think him dead, if none of the letters had made it? Had they left the farm for richer pastures, so that no one was there to receive them? His father would be getting old, perhaps he had even died by now. Little Thamas would be about full-grown. It seemed strange, somehow, to have a brother he did not know. It was not unusual, he supposed, but even so. A man should know his family.

He placed the letters carefully in the knapsack, trying to find a place that would keep them from crumpling on the way. When he was satisfied, he put the knapsack down by the door, and looked around. What else?

Oh, yes, of course.

Getting on this knees and reaching under the cot, he lifted away the loose floorboard and fished out the oilcloth pack underneath. Settling on the floor, leaning against the cot, he unwrapped the book. It looked the same as ever. Had it really been almost a year since last he held it?

He turned it over in his hands, looking for water damage and finding none. He cracked it open, scanned the alien text on it's pages, as incomprehensible now as on the day he found it. No pages missing, no ink faded. Finally, he opened it to the first page, and looked through the little window between the worlds, at the desk still standing in the darkness in D'ni. Motionless, yet more than a painting, the image was as clear as ever. No change.

He closed the book, and wrapped it in the oilcloth again. As he was putting it into the knapsack, he realised that he had not even contemplated touching the image this time. He looked again around the small room. Was he so comfortable here that all thoughts of adventure had gone? Or was life in the mountains adventure enough? He had not looked at the book since he got back from the last fair. Good Lord above, he had nearly forgotten to bring it now! When had this happened? Disturbed, without fully understanding why, he sat down on the cot and stared out through the tiny window. He didn't move until his stomach protested the lack of food.

***

The next morning, he did not oversleep, despite having laid awake well into the small hours. He got up, hauled the bags and his knapsack outside, and closed the door behind him. There was no real lock, and should a squatter come, it would likely lead to a confrontation when he returned. His name was scratched into the door frame, though, so the ownership was clearly established.

He loaded the pelts and one of the bags on the mule, and then saddled Ammad, named for the horse he once had so wanted, and put the remaining weight on him. All the preparations made, and all his belongings with him, he turned his back on the cabin and started the voyage north.

He had made this journey four times now, and part of it much more frequently. It would take him the better part of two weeks to reach Fort Raymond, but he did not mind the trip. It was shorter and easier than trying to navigate down the river to St Louis, in any case. He rode in silence, keeping a pace that wouldn't exhaust the animals. Through the fabric of his knapsack he could feel the contours of the book, poking him the back. It had grown huge in his mind since last night. Was it to start haunting him again? It had been years since his revelation by the ocean, and he had not questioned his decision since. The world had wonders yet to show, before he needed to look in others.

But what wonders had he seen lately? He had intended to stay in the mountains only a short while, to build up some funds for his further travels. When he built the cabin, he intended it to be a temporary structure. How could four years have gone by so fast? Looking around him, suddenly more aware of his surroundings, he watched the trees and rocks go by, the path you could maybe call a trail winding away. The same path he'd taken last year, and the year before. Even the trip to Fort Raymond had a routine. Where had his restlessness gone? He had gone and settled down without even noticing!

The journey proved to be uneventful, giving him plenty of time to ponder this realisation. He began examining the book again, every night as he made camp. Still he did not try to use it, his hand remained firm in its grip on the cover. It did not wander towards the living image on the page. And somehow, this frightened him more than the impulses to go through ever did.

***

Fort Raymond was not an impressive structure. A simple wooden palisade surrounded five equally simple wooden houses, only a small step up from his own cabin, which leaned against it to save the trouble of building an extra wall. It lay just a stone's throw or two from the river junction, so it was reasonably protected by the water on two sides. Normally, it only housed a few determined traders, but now was the trading season, and trappers from all over the area were swarming in to sell their goods at much too low prices.

As he approached the fort, he passed the several small camps of trappers and traders already arrived. Most of them were Indians, some loners, some trading on behalf of their tribe, but there were a few whites scattered in between, men like himself who had chosen the lonely life in the mountains. He saw a couple he recognised, there was young Bill Williams, who'd never last long in this life, and Stinky Sam, who took the unwashed lifestyle of the mountain men a bit too far, but for the most part, they were strangers. None of them looked too friendly. Gatherings like these tended to bring out the worst in people. A group of nature's loners, trying to share the same little patch for several days, there was bound to be friction.

He rode into the fort, receiving curt nods of greeting as he passed other trappers, and giving equally short gestures of recognition in return. Finding the nearest representative of the company, he announced himself, and indicated carefully how many pelts he had to sell. He was here early enough that prices were not yet through the floor, but he still needed to try negotiating the best price possible. Fort Raymond traded mainly with the Indians, so the exchange would be mainly in goods rather than money. There were several things he needed replenished, both salt and gunpowder, two necessities of life, were running lower than he liked. He could also do with some thread and fabrics, his clothes could use a bit of repair.

Having made his introductions and intentions to sell known, he left the trader on amicable terms. They would finish the haggling the next day, and then he would be done. There might be other goods he'd want to trade for, some of the Indians often brought trinkets and tools to the fort to sell to other trappers, but he'd hopefully only need to stay the one night. He was one of nature's loners, too.

***

He'd made camp at the edge of the temporary town that had sprung up around the fort. He hoped to be relatively undisturbed there. As long as hostile tribes in the area didn't attack, he should be fine. There was some revelry going on closer to the fort, men getting drunker than was wise, celebrating their sudden influx of riches. Just as well, thieves in the night would target the drunkards first. He'd be left alone.

Stirring his tiny fire with a twig, his thoughts turned back to the subject that had haunted him the whole way here. Was this the life he wanted? Spending every waking moment trapping beaver, so he could sell it to the crude and uncouth drunkards that would be his only company? Sour, unpleasant and hard men. He felt so unlike them, but had to wonder if that was what they saw when they looked at him.

Four years. The idea had been to get a bit of money and then move on, but somehow, there was always a need for a bit more. Supplies always needed replenishing, the animals always needed care, the cabin always needed upkeep. The disgust made his lips curl; he'd gotten downright domestic! This was what he had left home to escape!

He threw the twig onto the fire, but both twig and fire were too small to give the action the gravitas he was looking for. Disappointed, he leaned back, put his head on his knapsack, and looked up at the stars. They were shining down, clear as ever. In the cold air, with the sounds of the forest ahead of him and the sounds of drunken singing behind, it seemed hard to believe that they were the same stars he had once stared up at from the desert. The stars that had welcomed him home, after his long absence. But not the stars he had journeyed through. Not the stars which has twinkled at him as he fell impossible distances between the worlds. These stars were at the same time both more familiar, and more unknown. He could look, but he could not touch, whereas the warm void he once had touch, he could never again see.

The sound of the singing faded away. He lost himself among those stars above, jumping from one twinkling point of light to the next, daring to imagine the wonders they held, the worlds turning around them, and visiting each in turn, riding on the tails of the shooting stars.

***

When he woke the next morning, he was relieved to find that nothing had been stolen during the night. No matter how many precautions, one could never be sure. Judging by the outraged shouts and sounds of commotion coming from the other side of the fort, not everyone had been so lucky.

He packed his things, and then made a quick tour of the camps to make sure there was nothing for sale he deeply needed. Then he rode into the fort to find the trader from the day before. He sold his hides, his mule, his horse and most of his belongings, taking only the bare necessities in return from the bemused trader. The rest of the value he demanded in money, and though the trader was obviously not happy to part with it, he got a heft pouch for the road. Then he left, with only the knapsack on his back, the book pressing comfortably against him, and the pouch of money in his pocket, and headed for the unknown west.


End file.
